They Just Can't
by p y n q u e
Summary: Final moments, aftermaths, and a few hints of happiness. The Jellicle tribe can pretend things will return to normal, even if there is overwhelming evidence that it won't. / The sequel to THEY JUST ARE! Yeah, all caps. Written like the final chapter. Discontinued.
1. He's Gone: The Tugger

**I'm back! This is the sequel to **_**They Just Are**_**. It's best you read that first. I'm attempting to answer your questions and tie up some… stuff. This is written like the final chapter of **_**They Just Are. **_**This is a flashback.**

**...  
**

**Holy shit. It just hit me. I flippin' killed Tugger.

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_When did this happen?_

How could he let it come to this? It was all too painful for him. The Tugger wondered whom he got it from as he sat in his hospital bed, looking out the window with half-lidded eyes. He didn't know exactly what it was—some disease with a terribly long name. Whatever it was, it hurt, but the Maine coon had no desire to treat it.

Tears stood in the Tugger's eyes and Demeter, Bombalurina and Munkustrap sauntered into his room, a bouquet in Bombalurina's paws. She looked beautiful, but her outfit was depressing—black and lacy—like she was going to a funeral. He would be soon, but he wasn't dead yet.

For a moment, it was like the sun-bathed old days. Noisy laughter and dirty jokes (some even from Munkustrap, who wasn't always as responsible as he let off) were shared and danced in the air, until the tears came and spilled.

He couldn't help it. He didn't want this to happen. The Rum Tum Tugger didn't want to die yet. But he was going to. It was terrible. And then Bombalurina started crying, and Munkustrap cried (little did the silver tom know that he'd be crying a lot in the future), and even Demeter let a few tears lose.

This wasn't like the old days at all. There was no warmth, no laughter, simply hugs and tears and sniffling. They couldn't leave him, so they didn't.

The tears stopped, and no one said a word. The toms and queens simply held hands, like Bombalurina, Demeter, and the other queens did when they were kittens and trying to summon the Everlasting Cat at sleepovers. Only, the Everlasting Cat couldn't save them now, no matter what magical incantations they recited or songs they sang.

And just as the Tugger was ready to crack a smile, the doctor came in with horrid news.

.

.

.

_Two more months._

He couldn't help but scream. Shriek, shout, cry, and pull his fur out. _No! No! No! _He was _lying_, the damn doctor, Tugger wasn't dying, he wasn't in the hospital, he was a kitten, running around with his friends, not even knowing was "sex" was.

The other cats watched in horror as their brother, brother-in-law, or potential made lost it. It was heartbreaking. Bombalurina was sure her heart really did shatter—what else could the pain in her chest mean? Angina?

It was silent for hours. Bombalurina, Munkustrap, and Demeter knew they couldn't leave him, not like this. Half asleep, tears rimming his red eyes. He looked small and frail, like a sickly kitten, instead of a large, terminally ill tom.

The sisters shared a look, Demeter's icy blue eyes saying she and Munkustrap had to leave, lest Alonzo (who would visit tomorrow) get bored or Jemima begin to worry. The gold queen had to ignore her older sister's trembling lips and puffy eyes, looking down as she stood up, gathering her cardigan. Munkustrap rested a gentle hand on her shoulder, and Demeter glanced at him, quickly regretting it. His eyes were raw, puffy and pink, his eyelashes-tear spiked, chapped lips curled up in a forced smile. Her mate was crumbling.

Little did Demeter know that this moment would become a _déjà vu._

As the wooden door clicked shut, Tugger scooted over, a lazy half-smile on his features. He patted the space next to him, his other hand propping up his head. It was like the old times between them, before all of _this._

Bombalurina slid off her shoes and laid in the hospital bed—but she would pretend it wasn't a hospital bed, act as if it was her bed, or Tugger's bed, and they were just going to bed and not grasping on to any time they had left together.

The scarlet queen would find herself falling asleep with tears slipping down her face.

.

.

.

_One month._

He has left the hospital to live his last few months to the fullest, even if it's only one month now. He's at the bar, talking to queens who he won't sleep with while Mistoffelees (you didn't think they'd lose touch, did you…?) sat at the other side of the bar, like the Tugger's chaperone.

The conjurer's eyebrows pushed together as laughter erupted from the Maine coon's bevy of queens. It irritated him that Tugger wouldn't get treatment—no, it didn't just irritate him, it made him seethe and above all, want to cry. He would be losing his best friend any day now. If only Tugger had listened to Old Deuteronomy's warnings, or Munkustrap's warnings, or at least anyone's warning.

Tugger believed himself to be immortal. Everyone else did, too.

No one could imagine that their Rum Tum Tugger was dying, dying a slow and painful death. Tears pricked at Mistoffelees's eyes but he wiped them away, and drowned them in a swig of some sweet drink and obviously gay cat he didn't know gave him. It was dumb, accepting a drink from a stranger but he didn't care. His mind was focused elsewhere, focused on his dying friend.

.

.

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_Two weeks._

The Tugger clutches his drink (lemonade this time) drink tightly, eyes widened. He swallows hard. Squeezes his eyes shut, so tightly that a painful tear slips out. The cats are starting to realize that something is wrong. He's less _curious, disobliging_,

_alive._

A painful cough shakes his body, and the Tugger feels like his organs are ripping from their places. He's glad he's alone, unless someone would worry (he didn't know they knew). _The doctor lied_, he tells himself over and over again. The tom refuses to believe something is wrong with him, even if he's reminded _every day_.

The kits visit him at his house later that day, and he wants nothing more than to cry. But he'd worry them, and the Rum Tum Tugger hates (hate_d_) worrying people. He's worried them all his life, and for a little while he'll stop and care.

"Hey Tugger!" Etcetera says, and Tugger can immediately sense a change in her. Instead of screaming, she is calm (almost). Instead of tackling him, she simply sits down next to him. _She knows something's up_.

Victoria gives him well-practiced sad eyes. Her blue eyes are the color of sadness, and Tugger simply can't look at them. Jemima, his niece, can't help but begin to cry as they try to hold a comedic conversation. Tears flow from her big brown eyes, falling from her chin to her dress.

Tugger has cried a lot lately.

.

.

.

_One more day._

Tugger goes back to the hospital for his assumed last day. They stick him with tubes and throw him in a gown that shows his bum when he stands up—but the Maine coon won't be standing for a while. He just wants to _sleep._

There's no turning back—there never was.

Before his leave, Tugger makes sure to say goodbye to every single cat. The sky is gloomy, and the clouds look like they're holding back tears of their own. Weeps, some quiet, some loud, can be heard around the Junkyard. Even Munkustrap was crying, but he wouldn't let anyone see him till he was done (but Munkustrap had many more tears to shed).

Bombalurina's heels click as her feet pound into the hospital tile. He footsteps are heavy, but quick. She wants to keel over and sob, but that can wait. The red queen mentally prepares herself for whatever might happen next, prepares herself to see Tugger's weak state. She promises herself to stay strong, to hold her tears till the Tugger's eyes shut for good.

"Hey, babe," Bombalurina tries to keep her voice steady as she slowly opens the door to Tugger's hospital room. She has to steal herself as her eyes rest on the tom in question—frail, sickly, and still gorgeous. It's wrong, terribly wrong. _Everything _is wrong, and Bombalurina simply wants to be there when the Rum Tum Tugger puts his next foot in the grave. But she won't cry, no she won't, until she wakes up and Tugger never does.

.

.

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_They're shaken._

Understanding what has happened is difficult for everyone. He's gone for good. That's him in the casket with the red and white flowers, that's him Old Deuteronomy is talking about. The Leader has to hold back his tears, and he does for so long that his eyes look like slimy orbs. And then he can't hold them in anymore—tears flow down as slide against a face wrinkled from years of smiling.

All is silent when Bombalurina approaches the casket. She looks beautiful, but old. Her eyes are darkened from a lack of sleep, figure hidden with a shapeless black dress. Her tail swings slowly, and her mouth is frozen in a small "o," like it just hit her that Tugger is gone—but over and over again, and harder every time.

When she peers into the coffin and sees her potential-husband (_if it wasn't for Pouncival… no, never mind, I can't blame the kit._), eyes shut and fingers laced, like he's peacefully sleeping, she breaks down. Loud sobs rack her body, and she falls, her nails painfully digging into the side of the casket. She looks tiny, alone, broken. The red queen's cries sound like painful, throaty screams that will ring through the cats' heads for weeks. Demeter rushes towards her destroyed sister, wrapping her arms around her tentatively, like if she hugged Bombalurina too tightly, she would shatter and Demeter would lose her sibling, too.

Demeter strains not to look at Bombalurina's face (Munkustrap's broken face was already etched into her mind—she was crazy enough already) as the two slowly rise, the latter holding her head in her hands. The scarlet queen's sobs have quieted, but her shoulders still shake violently.

As the group stands outside, waiting for the Tugger's ebony casket to be lowered into the Earth, Bombalurina rests her head in the crook of Demeter's neck. She cannot watch them toss her love into the ground and bury him, she can't accept that he's

dead.

Munkustrap clutches his hat as he watches cats he doesn't know bury the casket, never to be brought up again. He wants to wish his brother safe passage to the Heaviside Layer, but he knows Heaviside doesn't exist, and the Rum Tum Tugger is simply sleeping, never to wake up.

.

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_The Rum Tum Tugger was a curious cat._

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_**I liked the beginning, but not the end. I was tired, and I wanted to post this.**

**One question down—**_**What were Tugger's thoughts before he died?**_

**Next end tied: Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer's lives in jail, and what happened just before they were jailed.**

**Request things! Mourning, pairing stuff (I plan on doing Etcy/Mistoffelees)… I'll try to answer any questions you have with a… story.**


	2. His Cure: Coricopat

**Here it is, chapter two. I was going to do Mungojerrie's life in prison (since Rumpelteazer would be in a women's prison, I think) but I decided to do what Coricopat was thinking before he killed himself.**

**By the way. **_**Victoria's baby is named Aphrodite, not Astrid**_**. That's what it says in Victoria's drabble, but I forgot… seeing as Aphrodite was my first candidate for a name.

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**

_It's just hard for him._

Tantomile may not know it, but he feels everything she does—just more. It's weird, really. If she's happy, he feels downright loopy. When she's sad, he feels despair.

And that's how he felt right now. Tantomile had been brooding over Alonzo's loss of affection for her—well, actually, he never felt any. Coricopat knew it was hard for her, watching the other queenkits her age finding some sort of romance, while she lost hers to a tiny calico (and partially a snobby Abyssinian).

It pained Coricopat to see his sister in such a state, and it had been taking a toll on him as well. A very big toll. It did not help that Coricopat was very deeply in love with Jemima, taken by her sister's object of affection. And Jemima had taken another of Tantomile's loves—Tumblebrutus. It was, to say the least, disheartening.

As thoughts of self-mutilation filled Tantomile's head, her brother actually did it. As Tantomile thought of the relief a blade would bring, Coricopat felt it. And he kept going back.

He kept a box cutter in his right pocket. Every day. He didn't know when a wave of depression would wash over him, and he had it just in case. Feeling the blood drip down his arm, seeing it dry against his fur was _delectable._

The psychic stood in the bathroom, trying to see himself in the foggy mirror. With a towel wrapped around his waist, Coricopat grabbed his substitute cure—a simple paperclip, bent into a less than straight line.

Hover right above the vein, press in, watch the blood flow. Coricopat wondered what it would be like if he used a kitchen knife—the blood, the gash, the beautiful pain… it was so _luscious._

So the tom shook his head, shook out the excess water and padded out of the bathroom, leaving water in his wake. His eyes were locked on a large knife with a blue handle. He reached for it, he was _so close_—

But then Tantomile got home.

.

.

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_He can wait._

It took all of Coricopat's might not to tell Tantomile to suck it up and stop crying so he could go slice his arms up. That was a terrible thing to think, of course, but he couldn't help it.

A good person would have held their crying sister in their arms. But Coricopat wasn't a good person. He simply sat there on the loveseat opposite Tantomile, jiggling his knees with a glass of cola in his hand, listening to his twin spout off her problems.

She was being

_weak_

_spineless_

_stupid._

He wanted to slap her, whack the tears right off of her face. But in the back of his mind lay a trace of sympathy. Coricopat wasn't a lover (or a fighter, thanks). He loved but one queen and he lost her, and he tried to get over it. He was almost over it, but Tantomile's damn feelings always got in the way.

Tantomile needed people, at least one. Coricopat wasn't that person. Even with the synchronization, the striking resemblance—the two were very different. Tantomile would comfort someone, tell him or her sweet things and make them smile, maybe even smile herself. Coricopat never needed to do that. Until now, of course, but he really didn't want to. He had other things he wanted to do.

.

.

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_She wouldn't shut up._

He shouted at her, slammed his glass on the table and stood up. She looked at him with pathetic, sad eyes.

It was stupid. Tantomile was supposed to be strong, untouchable. Now she was mush.

"Get over yourself, Tantomile!"

"What are you talking about?"

"All you talk about is _Alonzo, Alonzo, Alonzo_—_why don't you love me, Alonzo?_"

"Because I'm _depressed_, Coricopat! I can feel things different than what you feel, brother!"

"Don't even call me that."

She had switched from broken to seething. She stood, looking taller than normal in her red heels. Her eyelashes were spiky from tears and her eyes were blotchy. It was pathetic, so un-Tantomile.

"What are trying to say?"

"Did you not realize how damn low I've been feeling?"

"I don't—"

"While you've been rambling about Alonzo, I've been feeling that pain _ten times harder!_" Her face was sad again now, upon realizing what had happened. Her trembling lips merely fueled the fire. How _dare_ she look sad? She had no right!

"Coricopat, I had no—" _Idea_. He didn't want to hear it.

"Do you _not _see how low you are? You're being whiny as fucking _Etcetera!_"

"_Excuse me, _Coricopat? That's because I actually have a _heart!_" The words were like knives, without the fabulous blood, but all the pain.

And he left—slipped on his shoes and coat and slammed the door as hard as he could.

.

.

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_The wind is cold._

It rustles his fur and freezes his being. His anger is gone, and he feels numb.

Lucky he has his cure.

The psychic turns, walks alongside a brick building in a shady part of town. (_Now Kittens don't go to the Southside of the city. Bad stuff happens there._) Coricopat didn't really care about that at the moment—suicide was simply murder of oneself. It'd be convenient if he was killed—he wouldn't have to do the job himself. That would be nice. He'd just sit there, let them cut into his being and steal his life.

Scrumptious.

He ignores catcalls from prostitutes in sequined dresses, ignores the sounds of some Pollicle retching and their friends getting a kick out of it, ignores the flickering neon lights of a drugstore. It's dirty, it's vulgar, it's lonely, and it's the perfect setting. Coricopat licks his chapped lips, wishing he had some Vaseline. He chuckled at the thought—_I'm Coricopat, the tom who wanted to look sexy for his suicide._

Coricopat thinks about his fellow Jellicles, Tantomile, Alonzo, and Jemima. He wants it all to go away, watch it all spill out in a flood of scarlet. Yes, that would be _delicious_. Just so long as no one found him—if that happened, all his hard work would be ruined with hospitals and stitches, just like when Victoria accidentally sliced her leg. He wishes he had pure white fur, like hers. It would make this situation even tastier. But no, Coricopat was splotched with various patterns and colors like his sister. He didn't even have snow to taint.

Coricopat also wishes he had a cigarette as he turns down an alley, slowly pulling out his cure. He leans against the rough brick, slides down and sits on the sub-polar ground. It would be the perfect site for a murder.

But this was suicide.

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**Mm, I made Coricopat seem like an ass. Oh well. I'm personally pretty pleased with this. If you teared up, awesome****—though that wasn't my aim. I'm usually pretty good at making people feel "emotionally unstable." (You know who you are, honey.) So, yeah, if you _didn't _tear up, that's fine. This is supposed to be lighter than _They Just Are_-yes, this was pretty damn heavym but it should get better... kinda.**

**Next up—Etcetera/Mistoffelees. I need to think about the prison stuff.**


	3. The Memory: Electra&Bombalurina&Demeter

**Sorry this took so long—while my other stories are cp;segioivbvu4327698845slakug being freakishly slowly updated, I want to keep this regular. I was on vacay—or rather, **_**holiday**_**…missy—a couple days ago and yeah.**

**, I lied. I'm going to be jumping around a lot, covering things of my choice. I **_**will**_** cover your questions—when I do that is unknown. This is mourning of various cats by various cats.**

**I'm really sad because I wrote a ton of this, and lost the pages…**

**A note: In Deuteronomy's drabble (chapter four of TJA, I believe) it says, "July Seventh was a sad day." That was the day the Tugger died. (Or Bustopher, or Coricopat, or Macavity—it was up for debate. But I had Tugger in mind.)

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**

_She really does miss him._

His scent, his voice, his warmth. He was her everything. Even if they slept with other cats, at the end of the day they went home to each other.

She would never forget the day he told her. He was on the verge of tears (and the Tugger _never _cried), his paws shaking. As soon as he entered the apartment, he wrapped her in his strong arms. She was surprised, to say the least. Tears stood in his eyes, he was obviously shaken, and then he hugged her—what was that about?

"Tug, what's wrong?" whispered the scarlet queen, her voice like velvet.

"I'm sick."

"Well, jeez, don't get me sick too!" Bombalurina joked, trying to force a laugh. She knew what he meant, but she refused to believe it. He just said _I'm sick_—that could mean anything, right? Totally.

"No, Bomb…" he whispered, pushing her back so he could see her face. Confused, airy, lips spread in an open-mouth smile. His eyes stung, and he knew he was going to cry.

"I'm dying."

.

.

.

_It was so cliché._

She couldn't help but think of bad Lifetime movies. But now that he was really gone, she could barely even pretend to laugh. During Victoria and Plato's wedding, it took all her strength to keep from _not _holding her peace. During the reception, that was Tugger she should have been dancing with, not the other queens. (She wouldn't dance with Pouncival. He had Electra, anyway, and they were damn cute together, the way they kept watching their feet.)

When she slept, Bombalurina almost always dreamed about the Tugger. The most vivid dream was one in which she was wearing a crisp, clean dress. Everything was white like snow (_like a wedding dress_), but it was warm.

His face was blurry, like someone had erased it. But he was there with her, she was in his arms, he was still _alive_… It was one of the best dreams she had, until she woke up.

_The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms_

_When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken_

_So I hung my head and I cried._

.

.

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_She didn't know she'd miss him so much._

His cold demeanor confounded her. She tried to get him to hang out with everyone, but he denied. At some point, she kind of liked him. In that Junior High bubbly kind of way.

But he's dead.

She was never told directly. She figured it out, because she's very sharp. She saw Munkustrap, Alonzo, and Old Deuteronomy, surrounding Tantomile, her head in her hands. She knew Tantomile was crying by her shaking shoulders.

As she approached, she could hear the psychic utter tear-slurred words—_I can't believe he's gone._ Instantly, Jemima knew what happened. She didn't know how or why, but she knew. Coricopat was dead.

It was a shock to everyone, especially Tantomile. She wouldn't talk to anyone, would only look at them.

And she didn't change her clothes.

She wore a blouse, black slacks, and heels—as close to what Coricopat was wearing in his casket. And then she didn't wear shoes, because her heel broke during her meltdown. It was scary, watching Tantomile destroy herself like that.

Jemima didn't know what to do. She never saw Tantomile at school—she stopped going, she dropped out—and whenever she knocked on their, or rather _her_ apartment door, all she got was silence. Everyone was worried about her, a no one knew how to help.

She'd just have to watch Tantomile crumble from afar.

.

.

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_His picture is getting dusty._

She wipes it with a manicured hand, nails long and shiny red. He liked when they were red. And sometimes that pink shade. She wished she could remember the name—and find that purple dress she liked.

Soon, Bombalurina would have to buy new clothes and she wouldn't be able to wear all of Tugger's favorites.

And then Demeter asked her what was up… things just got a bit out of hand at that point. The two queens planned to have a girls' night with Cassandra, and the gold and black queen was half-heartedly helping Bombalurina pick out something to wear. She was torn between a deep green shirt (from that rendezvous on the boardwalk) and an off-white shirt (she wore it on their first date, and it has fit since), to go with a black skirt (from six days before he passed—he said it looked sexy).

"Bomb, you're going to have to wear clothes without sentimental value some time."

"What are you talking about? I'm just keeping his legacy alive… or something."

"By wearing old clothes and using every last drop of nail polish? Honey, you're worrying me."

"Why, Demeter? It's not like I'm comatose." Her eyebrows pushed together, the shoulders of the violet top creasing as her fists clenched. It was annoying when people brought up this kind of stuff. Her drink choices (lemonade, his favorite), her lipstick, her eating habits (gotta stay a ten). There was nothing wrong with her—she wasn't starving, she wasn't depressed. Bombalurina was keeping him alive.

"You might as well be."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Her teeth, perfectly white and straight, clenched, and the shirt fell to the floor. She wouldn't be going out tonight, at this rate.

"You're like a zombie, Bombalurina. Everything you do revolves around _him_."

"And what's so wrong with that?"

"You need to get over him—"

"Oh, fuck that."

"Look, Bomb. He's _dead_."

.

.

.

_She said her first word a while ago._

It was quite surprising, really. She had Aphrodite bouncing on her knee, having a grand old time while a dancing kangaroo, penguin, moose, hippo, and some strange pink animal singing songs about pie graced the TV screen. Aphrodite was happily playing with Electra's necklace (given to her by Pouncival) when she uttered the word _dead._

It was so long ago, but it still shook Electra to her core. Being exposed to that kind of thing at such a young age—horrifying! Surely, Aphrodite would be screwed up when she grew up. Which reminded her that the kit would be turning two in a few months. She needed to choose a gift—something pretty, something that would last forever.

_Something that would last forever. _Forever was a word Electra hated now. As a kit, she had been convinced her parents would live forever, that Old Deuteronomy would live forever, even that the Rum Tum Tugger would live forever. Jemima had basically told him he couldn't leave them (this was a front tooth-missing fun size Jemima, mind you), that he'd be with them forever. He had laughed, ruffled her head fur and said,

_I'm never going to leave, kiddo._

_I'll live forever._

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**This didn't have a lot of action. But there were a few things I needed to write… Yeah.**

**I will eventually answer all of your questions, babes. I won't promise anything else so you don't eat me.**

**Oh, hey—shorter chapters = faster updates. Longer chapters = slower updates. Which do you want?**


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